


Beautiful Creatures:  Pawns of Prophecy

by NorthernLights37



Series: Beautiful Creatures [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Big Book!Dany energy, Big Book!Jon energy, But my usual levels, Canon-Divergent from 7.03, F/M, Final Installment of Beautiful Creatures, Fluff, Like what is canon?, Naturally there will be smut, Now ABSOLUTELY Canon-Divergent, Romance, Some angst, Targling incoming, War, i don't know her, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Having taken the Iron Throne, the new Queen and King of Westeros finally turn their sights North, where the Night King waits, and the final battle begins.  But tensions run high, and discoveries are made, leaving Jon and Daenerys to question exactly what they want, and what price they are willing to pay to achieve it.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Beautiful Creatures [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655935
Comments: 83
Kudos: 479





	1. The Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoOrdinaryLines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoOrdinaryLines/gifts).



> So, here we are at last, the final installment of a fic that started back in 2017. It’s been a bumpy fandom ride since then for everyone, but fuck it, I guess we’re still here so let’s do this shit.
> 
> This chapter is probably the shortest we’ll see, clocking in around 5k. Expect about twice that for what follows.
> 
> As far as where we’re at in the timeline, well, we’ve shuffled a few things around with the previous works, so this chapter begins around the time that our intrepid heroes were making their plans to ‘sail together’ in canon. But say goodbye to canon, that bitch is dead in a ditch somewhere at this point.
> 
> Chapter title borrowed from the fantastic novel ‘Pawn of Prophecy’ by David Eddings which I highly recommend 😁
> 
> As always I live dangerously and without a beta so I’m sure I’ll spot all kinds of mistakes and typos that I didn’t catch on the first few read thrus as per usual.
> 
> Enjoy, sluts and himbos!

* * *

  
  
Fear was an interesting thing.

It had a rhythm and flow, something in the nature of it that could be a calm, slow, trickle but quickly grow into a rushing, pounding river of near-crippling paralysis.

She stood in her chambers, in the room she was born in, the room in which her mother had died, and Daenerys knew fear.

Dragonstone was near-deserted, now. Already, her Dothraki and Unsullied had begun the long march North, led by Ser Jorah and Grey Worm and Qhono. A surprising number of small folk had joined, but there were many who remained behind in the safety of the city walls, under the care of her Hand and Jon’s; the infirmed, the elderly, young mothers with babes still at breast, children with no parents to tend to them at all. All these remained, and in similar fashion, the only folk besides Jon and Daenerys who lingered on the shores of Dragonstone now were some of the Dothraki who could not easily travel. Someone must remain, she’d told herself, and the oldest of her Dosh Khaleen would stay and occupy her home as she and her King rode off to war.

She released a shuddering breath and smoothed a hand over the growing swell of her stomach, the smooth silk of her dressing gown cool beneath her fingers. This, here, was the source of the greatest of her fears, even as it filled her heart with almost limitless joy.

The words still rang in her ears, whispered in most sinister fashion within her soul. This kind of fear was the sort, that nipped at her heels like a wild, feral dog, that chased her even when she dreamed. There would only be one cure, she knew. She would birth a living child, or she would not, and deep down there lurked the knowledge that perhaps she could not bear it, to lose another.

It was almost enough to outweigh the frigid, icy fear that ran cold fingers up her spine, the horror that gripped her anew when she remembered the army that lay in wait for them, the one she must fight, that she had been born to fight.

With Jon.

That was what she believed, now, for as much as the thought made her hands tremble and a clammy sweat dew her palms. It seemed too much of a coincidence to be anything other than fate. When she looked back, now, on the path that had brought her to this very moment, standing bare-footed on the stone floor of her rooms, eyes trained on the dying light of day, she could see the larger pattern.

Every step she had taken had led her to this, now, to this war that she had been blind to before she had set sail for her home, armed with the only weapons that could turn the tide of the battle ahead. Every step had brought her forward, every pain had driven her onward, and now she was here.

And finally, at last, she was not alone.

Her head turned at the sound of the door latch, her smile rising easily, her fear receding, as Jon stepped over the threshold, a tray of food in hand, a small basket in the other.

What he saw on her face she was not sure. What she did know, however, was that he seemed to read her almost effortlessly. It was strange, to be known like this, to be known by another so deeply. Of all the things that had transpired, this was what she had never anticipated.

Daenerys had thought her heart all but dead when she’d left Meereen, but it was not. Not at all. It was gloriously alive, picking up speed as he stepped nearer, a soft smile curling his lips as he placed the tray on a low table near the wall along with the basket. Love had been the least of her concerns, and the King in the North had slipped past her every defense with breathtaking ease.

Now, she could not picture being without him, and that was its own particular brand of fear.

Strong hands cradled her cheeks with gentle pressure, lifting her face so that he could gaze down at her. “You’re worrying,” he whispered, and dropped a kiss to her forehead, the apples of her cheeks, his full lips seeking hers with a sweetness that belied his hard Northern exterior.

His thumbs rubbed her jaw as he waited for her to reply, gray eyes holding the same lingering concern that he no doubt found in hers.

“So are you,” she answered quietly, a wry smile creasing her lips as he let out a soft laugh.

He nodded, briefly, and let out a breath. “Always.” He released her face and took her hand, his palm warm and calloused as it cupped hers, and brought her to the table, waiting until she was seated to do the same. They shared the same plate, the roasted chicken and sparse vegetables that remained in her dwindling larder making her stomach growl angrily as she caught the scent.

That made him laugh anew, his dark eyes finding hers, dancing as he shoved a warm, thick piece of bread into her empty hands and took a large, ungracious bite of his own. “Eat,” he urged around the mouthful, “For our babe is hungry, I think.”

The mention was enough to send her hand to the place where his children grew inside her, and she moaned in relief at the first bite, chewing thoughtfully as he made short work of his first slice and reached for another. “Yes,” she said as she swallowed, watching the way his gaze shifted to her hand, following the movement as she traced the shape of her swollen belly, seeming to grow more prominent by the day. She was in her fourth moon, and soon her fifth would be upon her.

Another fear, for time was little more than shifting sand through her fingers. She had no desire to wage war while heavy with child, but there seemed no choice left to her.

With the way Jon’s soft look seemed to harden, she knew he felt the same. It would take at least two turns of the moon for their forces to reach the snowy North, and by then there would be little hiding that she was carrying a babe. She would be an easy target, in so many ways. For both the monsters they faced, and the men as well.

But she would always have enemies, she always had, and so she swallowed down that fear with another bite of bread, chasing it with water and forcing herself to relax, pretending as though such a thing were possible.

She nodded towards the basket set between them, the stack of ravens visible in a large pile, still sealed. Messages had accumulated while they’d been away, taking back the Throne that her family had forged, and now there were none left to read them but the King and Queen themselves. “I see you plan for us to work this evening, yes?”

Jon snorted and grinned around a bite of chicken, swallowing it down and casting his eyes briefly to the missives that waited. “For a bit, at least. I wouldn’t think to work all evening, though.” His brows waggled meaningfully, the suggestive way his eyes travelled down her seated form flooding her with warmth. “Not at that, at least.”

It was silly, she knew, that her cheeks could still flush. Jon was something she had partaken of with great abandon, as often as they were able, in a myriad of ways. And yet, here in the comfort and quiet of their chambers, with the candlelight gilding him in red and gold, the crackling of the hearth filling the silence between their words, somehow it still felt new, as though he were still something yet to be discovered, a depth remaining unplumbed.

Yes, he was still a mystery to her sometimes, this reluctant King, this warrior who could touch her so sweetly with his rough hands, who could love her so completely that every whole in her tattered heart had been filled with him.

He had his masks to wear, just as she did, but she liked him best like this, already in his bed clothes, eyes heating as he studied her, no need to be anything but himself.

He could just be Jon, right now, and she, just Dany, and that was the thing she loved the most, a simple comfort in times that grew more uncertain by the day. Time, that was what she wanted, time to love him more, and she reached across the table, taking his hand in hers, folding their fingers together and holding tight.

She wasn’t afraid to love him, not anymore.

It was losing him, that was what gutted her, any time the barest flicker of the idea crossed her mind. That, she would not allow.

“Dany,” he uttered, his voice rough, eyes full of equal measures of love and concern, “save it for the morning, love. Whatever it is. Let it rest for now.” He came to kneel before her, knees hit the floor, his jaw set and determined as he let his larger hand rest above hers on her stomach. “Let us have some peace tonight, hm?” When he looked at her, she could see the near-overwhelming fear in his dark stare. She could feel the way his hand trembled slightly as he followed the round curve of her belly over to her hip. “Fear is better felt in the day, when the sun is shining.”

He was right, of course. He had an uncanny ability to do that, to know what to say to her, to bring about a measure of peace when she needed it most. And so, she nodded, and raised her hands to curl around his neck, pulled him closer and kissed him softly. “I love you,” she breathed against his lips, and felt them curve up in response. “I think perhaps you’ve been a terrible influence on me,” she said with a broad smile, her fingers moving to drag through his short, bristling hairs of his beard. “I fear I spend an inordinate amount of time brooding, lately.”

He chuckled, the tension in him easing as he gave a tender look to her midsection, his hand ghosting across the swell once more before he rose to stand before her. “Oh, aye, I’ve no doubt about that. So, take it from one who is a master of the more melancholy arts, my love,” he continued, with an airy tone that she knew he was forcing, “Leave it for now. It will be waiting for you, when you’re ready to stew on it again.”

Then he cut off a drumstick and handed it over with great flourish, watching keenly as she took a bite, trying to do as he suggested, finding the warmth in his eyes and the quiet solitude of this place, of his company, enough to quell her fears, at least for a night.

With a smile, she took the meat, and in a matter of minutes, it no longer felt false, on her face.

\--------------

He sat behind her, propped up against the headboard and the many feather pillows that festooned the head of the bed, and she reclined between his bent knees, the basket of ravens on her lap as she lay her head against his chest.

“Let us see what greetings await, hmm?” She felt his hum of agreement at her question against her back, and handed him a random piece of parchment, claiming one for herself as well. In silence, they unsealed each, his task no doubt a bit more arduous than hers as he had to reach around her to break the wax seal, but he made no complaint at all. He chuckled, under his breath, and she craned her neck to find him grinning at the unfurled scroll he held to his left.

“Dorne offers their hearty congratulations on our conquest, and well wishes regarding our marriage and the news of our future heir.” He held the scroll out for her to read, and she felt a nervous shiver, something oddly vulnerable streaking through her as she remembered that Ellaria knew, of course, knew about the babe she carried, and soon every kingdom would. It was rather obvious, now, the small swell easy enough for the Dornishwoman to discern, when they had freed her from the dungeons below the Red Keep. It wasn’t a secret, exactly, but she felt protective over this babe in a way that eclipsed anything she’d felt before.

She felt a laugh rise, as well, when she saw the not-so-subtle suggestion that had followed the kind words of the last of House Martell, the Princess Arianne, that perhaps there might come a child to her as well, and might they consider a betrothal? She sighed, and lay her head back again, tipping her chin up enough to see his profile. “Seems a bit soon to speak of betrothals, I think.”

Jon kissed his teeth, exhaling a heavy breath. “No doubt.” He nodded towards the scroll in her hand, and she saw, when she peered closely in the flickering light of the oil lantern beside the bed, that it was sealed with a snarling wolf. She tensed, unsure, but when she glanced at him again she could make out the half-smile on his face. “Go on then, let’s see what they have to say.”

Dany swallowed hard, and broke the seal. She had learned, slowly, in quiet conversations witnessed only by the moonlight, of Jon’s concerns regarding House Stark. She knew well, now, of his misgivings where his sister Sansa was concerned, that he had feared even as he left her to see to the North that her goals might not align with his own. She knew, though it pained him to admit it, that he wondered often if she had meant for him to die in the battle to take back Winterfell from House Bolton, how she had neglected to tell him of the Knights of the Vale who were riding to their aid. She knew, though it made anger rise within her, that Jon was all that stood between Sansa Stark and total rule of the North for the eldest trueborn Stark.

As she unrolled the parchment, she discovered there were two missives contained, not just one. The first, rolled tightly inside the other, was written in a fairly sloppy hand, as though the writer had been in a hurry. Drops of ink splotched the paper, but the words scrawled across made her smile, as she read the contents aloud.

“ _Jon -_

_I hear you’ve gone and got yourself married to the Dragon Queen. As your favorite sister you understand what is required to get back in my good graces, I think. I demand my new goodsister provide me with at least one ride atop a dragon, the great black one, I think_.”

Dany laughed aloud, as did Jon, and she sat up, twisting to look at him. “I think I like her, already,” she said with a chuckle, warmth flooding her as Jon’s eyes danced with amusement. “She’s just as cheeky as you are.”

Jon snorted. “Far more than me, I’ll have you know.” He eyed the scroll. “Is that all she’s got to say?” 

She heard the longing in his voice, and gave him a gentle smile, looking back to the parchment in her hands. “No, husband, there is more.” After a moment of thought, she handed it to him, to let him see his sister’s words for himself.

He took it readily, fondly, but as his face began to fall, his eyes tracking across the missive, she felt her stomach twist. “What is it?” 

At her hushed whisper he looked up, his gray eyes stormy. “What I expected, I reckon.” He thrust the scroll back into her hands, his jaw tight and working as he looked away, silent.

She scanned the words quickly, drawing in a quick breath, her eyes narrowing.

_Hurry back, I beg you. You are King, not just of the North, now, but of the other Kingdoms as well, and you must set things back to rights, here. Every day that passes Sansa tries to sway the banners to her favor, and I do not know if we can trust her aims, Jon. I do not want a war amongst us, not if what Bran says is true. Sansa does not believe it, though she has every reason to. Bran knows things he should not, and he says the dead are coming, that you are right. Sansa trusts Littlefinger, and I am afraid of what she means to do, with his whispers in her ear._

_I miss you. I have missed you most. I trust you most._

_-Arya_

She had no reaction, for a moment, other than the way her heart seemed to turn over in her chest.

When she checked her gaze to Jon, she could see the coiling fury inside him. His voice was clipped and short as she held the other scroll towards him, not yet sure she trusted herself to speak, not wanting to poison his relationship with the eldest Stark sister further by unleashing the litany of curses she wished to let loose.

He took the scroll that was no doubt from Sansa loosely, as though it might bite him, and read it silently, his lips pressed into a tight line, almost to the point of rendering the flesh white. “Bloody hells,” he uttered, and handed it over, rising from the bed to pace as he waited for her to see for herself what Sansa had to say.

_Word of your marriage and coming heir have reached us. While I am sure the Dragon Queen has quite captured your attention, and no doubt your heart, you cannot expect that the North will simply yield because you could not subdue your baser instincts. We will judge for ourselves when you deign to grace us with your presence, Your Grace._

_-The Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell_

Outside, Drogon screamed into the night, the mirror to the anger that seemed to race through her. She climbed from the bed, as well, to where he had ceased his endless movement to stand before the fire, and slowly, methodically, tossed the raven into the flames.

Together, they watched the parchment burn.

“She borders on treason,” Jon finally said, in a hushed tone. “She has tasted power for herself, and does not want to give it up. Foolish, but not wholly unexpected.” She saw his fist clench and unclench at his side, his scarred hand fiddling at his side, until she took it with hers.

Daenerys wished she had the words required to comfort him, but that was an impossible task. She knew well the bitterness of betrayal, especially in this manner, by one’s own blood. She would forever see the hate and rage on her brother’s face, each strike and threat stealing what lingering love she had held for him, the last of her blood. This wound cut deeply, she knew, and so she said nothing for a moment, simply squeezing his hand, and leaned against his side, her head resting against his shoulder as they stared into the flames.

It would be easy to simply hate the woman, but in a way, Daenerys thought she understood. Jon had spoken, sparingly, of what had happened to Sansa Stark, and though she had no patience for the Lady of Winterfell’s willful insolence, she could understand what had rooted itself inside Sansa.

“She’s afraid,” she whispered, and felt Jon stir beside her, knew without looking that he was peering at her. “And when people are afraid they do foolish things. But perhaps we can still salvage things, make her see the truth.” She turned, and wound her arms around his waist, leaning back to search his face, and gave him a crooked smile. “Though perhaps she has the right of it, for I most certainly went out of my way to appeal to your ‘baser instincts’, you know.”

He didn’t want to laugh, she could tell. He wanted to cling to his anger, to his hurt, but when she gave him an amused, knowing look he couldn’t help himself, and chuckled, his hands falling to her hips. With a roll of his eyes, he worried his bottom lip with his teeth, lips turned upward as he gazed down at her. “Aye, I reckon you did. In my defense, I held out as long as I could.”

Dany pursed her lips as he attempted to look weary and put-upon, and raised a hand to cuff against his shoulder chidingly. “It must have been very trying for you,” she said solemnly.

His lips twitched as he tried valiantly to retain his mask of woeful brooding. He clucked his tongue and tightened his grip, pulling her closer until she was flush against him. “Oh, aye. My tribulation has been endless.” 

She took a step back, placing a warning finger against his chest as she saw what had sparked in his eyes, knew that if she did not put some distance between them, now, the remaining ravens would remain forgotten. “I know what you’re intending, you wicked man, despite your claims at innocence.” She giggled like a girl as he pulled her close again, growling into her neck before he nipped at the skin. “Let us see to the rest of those, first.”

She felt his groan even as she heard it, even as he sagged in defeat against her. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he muttered against her neck, but he managed a rueful smile as he pulled back, resigned. With yet another heavy sigh he made his way back towards the bed, ‘til he was situated on the side that had become his, just as the space to his right had become hers.

Dany hadn’t been lying, when she’d told him it was an awfully large bed for just her. She didn’t mind sharing. And with him, she intended to share everything, even the everyday minutiae of constant ravens and requests and demands.

Climbing onto the bed, she fought back the urge to curl against his side, wondering that the temptation to have him would override her desire to be done with this task that had sat neglected. She laughed lightly as she caught sight of him pouting, and tweaked his nose before laying a hand along the swell his babe had made, and taking a raven with the other. “That sad face you’re making won’t dissuade me, my love.”

His frown deepened, and he leaned close, ‘til his nose just brushed hers. “Are you sure?”

Jon could be very convincing, when he wished to be, but she would not be swayed. She allowed herself to peck a kiss against his lips, then shoved against his shoulder with a scowl. “Yes.” She made a show of examining the raven in her hand, her brow wrinkling as she tried to work out the sigil in the wax seal. It was not one she had seen, and she made a thoughtful noise as she studied it. “Do you recognize this?”

Clearly realizing his attempts at distraction would not work, Jon begrudgingly glanced at the seal, a lizard if she was not mistaken. Then he straightened, surprised. “I believe...Well, I think that belongs to House Reed. One of my bannermen, in the Neck. Odd, that a raven should arrive here from them.” He seemed rather disgruntled as he examined the mark. “They never answered my call when we tried to rally bannermen to take back my home.”

She thought he might wish to open it, and waited for him to reach for the raven, but he didn’t, just settled back against the pillows and gestured for her to continue. “If it’s bad news, Dany, just chuck it into the fire with Sansa’s, if you please.”

With a chuff of a laugh she broke the seal, carefully unrolling the brittle parchment, the script within quite cramped, but neat enough to read easily enough. She cleared her throat and made sure he had his attention as she began to read.

“ _To the rightful King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,_

_House Reed wishes this raven might find you under better circumstances than on the eve of a great and mighty war, when time might be given for celebration._ ” Her eyes widened, and she looked up to find Jon’s eyes flicking between her face and the parchment, before he gave a nod of encouragement. 

She continued, though she could not help but think this raven might be bound for the fire as well, something ominous lingering at the edge of her mind. “ _But regretfully, the Great War is upon us at last, and it is on your shoulders that our hopes for survival lay. Word has reached the Neck that you intend to bring your armies forth, and though time runs short, I must beg a boon of you, a visit to me here, at Greywater Watch, on a matter of much urgency_.”

Dany paused, her eyes travelling faster than her tongue could manage, and what she saw next caused her to fall silent, to struggle to find her voice. For a moment she just stared at the words, shocked.

“Oh,” she managed, and felt Jon’s warm hand light upon her forearm.

“What is it?”

The worry in his voice shook her from her reverie, and she pressed on, unsure of how the rest of the message would land on him, with everything else they had to bear.

“ _I fear there is a good likelihood we shall all die in the forthcoming days, and I wish to give our new King a gift that has been long overdue. For I am one of the few still living who know the truth of Jon Snow’s mother, and I can keep it from him no longer_.” She looked up to find Jon’s face draining of color, his mouth open, his eyes wary as he moved closer. She read the rest almost absently, focused more on the play of emotions on his face than the words in her hands. 

“ _If a man is to face death, it should be in the full knowledge of who he is._

_-Your humble servant, now and always, Lord Howland Reed_.“

Gently, she lay the message aside, and crawled closer to him, raising the skirts of her dressing gown so she might sit astride his lap. Taking his face in her hands, she held him, until he met her eyes. This, she knew, was a tender subject for him. They had no secrets, not from each other, and for as much as Dany had confessed her longing to have known her mother, in Jon dwelt that same desire. But she, at least, knew the identity of the woman who’d birthed her. Jon had never known that luxury; it had been stolen from him the moment Ned Stark had ridden south, never to return.

His mouth opened and closed, several times, but no sound came forth, and she shifted closer still, and linked her arms behind his neck. “We can spare a few days,” she whispered, and kissed his forehead. “We should see this bannerman of yours.”

Jon licked his lips, something in his eyes so very lost that she felt tears begin to gather in her own. He began to shake his head, but she stopped him, pressing her forehead against his, their eyes level. “Yes,” she said. “I want to. I want you to know. You deserve to know.”

He looked down, his eyes seemingly focused on her lips, for several moments. “Dany,” he finally said, his voice heavy, “It doesn’t matter. Not really. I made my peace with this long ago.”

She let her palms rest against his jaw, keeping his head in place when he tried to look away again, forcing him to hold her stare. “You deserve to know,” she repeated emphatically. Then she reached down, and took his hand in hers, and laid it upon the gentle curve of her stomach. “For all of us, hm? So that when we win this war, and this babe is born, we may tell them of their grandmothers. Both of them.”

His eyes grew misty, and he sniffed, his tongue tracing his teeth until he raised his gaze from where his hand rested to her face. “You really don’t fight fairly at all, you know.” He chuckled, a watery sound, and smiled ruefully.

“No, I don’t. That’s why I win. That’s why we will win.” With an air of finality, she kissed him firmly, parting his lips with her tongue until he moaned into the cavern of her mouth. “We shall leave in the morning for Greywater Watch. And from there, we shall check on our armies, see what sort of progress they’ve made.” She kissed the tip of his nose, next, her lips dropping to hover above his as she whispered, “And Ghost, of course.”

He was finally swayed, with that, relenting and grabbing once more for the rounded shape of her hips, his palms hot through the thin fabric of her shift. “Can’t forget about him,” he said absently, repositioning her so that her pelvis was flush against his, their skin separated only by their bedclothes. “Can we be done, for the night, you think? I’m full up on tidings from the Realm.”

Capturing her tongue between her teeth she shoved the basket aside, to the foot of the bed, and then smiled down at him, taking in his hooded gaze as it traveled over her form. “Yes,” she said simply, and reached for the hem of his tunic, tugging it over his head with his aid. “There are other matters to be tended to, I think.”

\-----------

He loved her slowly, that night, his eyes holding hers even as she trembled and quaked around him, even as his seed spilled hot within her. They lay together, after, limbs tangled and dewed with sweat, smiling sweetly at each other, waiting for their hearts to slow and their breathing to steady, when he finally spoke again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheek, and she did not need to ask his intent. She turned her head and kissed the center of his palm.

“I love you,” she said in return, and he smiled so broadly that his eyes were hardly visible, crinkling in the corners, his face painted in gold and red and shadow in the dying light of the room, the fire burning low now, as did the lantern.

“And I you,” he whispered, an intensity there that never ceased to amaze her.

A lingering worry plagued her, and she thought it best to speak it now, to rid herself of it, so she did not carry it any longer. “I don’t wish to come between you and your family, Jon. I do not wish to be the cause of the strife between you.”

Several heartbeats passed, his eyes dark and searching as he stared at her, only inches away. Finally, he released a sigh, and leaned in, and as her eyes closed she felt his lips light against each of her eyelids in turn, then her cheeks, then finally her lips.

He placed his hand on her stomach, and caught her gaze when he responded.

“You are my family now. Both of you. No matter what comes tomorrow, or the day after, or the next after that. Remember that. I love you more than anything, Dany. That’s what matters now.”

He shifted, putting out the lantern, and then pulled her against him, so that she was curled against his chest. And though she hadn’t thought it possible, his words brought her enough peace that she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, letting her fears and worries drift away to face again in the morning sun.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Greywater Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon make the journey to Greywater Watch, where a long overdue truth looms large.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are at Part 2, old chums. I've done a lot of variations of Jon learning the truth, over the years, but I don't think I've ever done a Howland reveal, so this was pretty fun for me, not gonna lie. Next chapter we finally get Jon on that motherfucking dragon, boys and girls and everything inbetween, and the decisions to be made in the wake of the truth. Enjoy and have a wonderful week! Thanks for reading!
> 
> ETA: please do not put your whole faith into Howland as the Ned Whisperer. Dude has been at Greywater Watch since the end of RR, he is not the most reliable of sources in some areas 😂 Not everything is joggin' in his noggin, if you catch my drift.

* * *

There was a brisk wind, one that seemed to feed the early morning chill, but the sun still shone bright overhead, bright enough to chase away the lingering shadows that were strung like cobwebs in her mind and heart.

But for Jon, she could tell, they lingered.

They stood together on the grassy cliffs, her dragons circling about, as though they knew that a journey lay ahead. Jon was setting about the task of ridding himself of the warm fur cloak he favored, balling it up as best he could and shoving the heavy fabric into a roughspun sack that was strapped across his chest, the bulk of the burden laying across his back. She wore one similar, one that carried rations should they need them, a spare set of trousers and a tunic, and the heavier white furred coat that Missandei had fashioned for her before they’d set off for King’s Landing.

“Our forces would hardly have reached the Riverlands by now, even with fair weather.” He sounded distracted, though the furrow of his brow suggested he was trying mightily to rein in his wayward thoughts. “Reckon it should only be half a day to Greywater Watch, at the most.”

Daenerys realized, swiftly, that it was not fear, or even the anger over his sister’s possible treachery that had him in such a frenetic state.

He was nervous.

Jon had bound his hair back that day, but an errant curl had escaped in the wind, and she came close, the tips of her boots bumping against his as she reached up a hand to tuck the strand back into place, letting her fingers drag through the short, dark bristles along his bearded jaw. “All will be well.” She rose up onto her toes, and kissed him sweetly, letting her lips linger against his as long as she dared, knowing well how easy it was to lose herself in him. “You’ll see, my love.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes locking with hers, and she raised a delicate brow at him, schooling her face into what she hoped was a rather scolding expression.

“Do you doubt your Queen?”

With a small smile, he grabbed her ‘round the waist, appearing to ponder the question as Rhaegal and Viserion let out noises that indicated a good-natured scuffle was afoot. “Hmm. No, I wouldn’t dare doubt you. It just feels…,” he paused, eyes looking to the sky as though the words he wanted were there, waiting to be plucked from the air, “selfish? Perhaps that’s it. With everything else we have to worry over, I fear I am indulging some childish wish when I ought to be above it.”

She studied him carefully, the way his jaw muscles twitched, the way his body seemed to tense under her scrutiny. “And?” At her prompt he ducked his head, sheepish.

“And perhaps there is a part of me that thinks it would be better not to know. That isn’t ready to hear the truth. For so long I have had only my imagination, you know. I could pretend she was some fine, noble lady. Or perhaps a barmaid. A whore. Because I don’t know who she is, she could be anyone. Anything my mind could conjure up.”

Dany traced the line of his brow with gentle fingers, feeling the way they furrowed beneath her touch. “Knowing means you can’t pretend anymore.”

His eyes lit up at her words, even as he frowned. “Aye, that’s it I think. It’s more final, then. And I suppose some foolish part that has lingered within me still hopes that somewhere, hidden away, she lives, that I might know her face, as well as her name.” He hung his head a little, his frown deepening further. “But I do not think that is the truth of it.”

They were startled, then, by the sudden movement behind Jon, Rhaegal boldly sliding his great head forward and butting it against Jon’s back. A friendly gesture, Daenerys thought, pleased that this strange phenomenon she had witnessed in her sons continued to grow.

Drogon’s interest had been passing, at best. He had allowed Jon Snow’s touch, but beyond that his focus remained firmly affixed on his mother.

But in the days since Jon Snow had come to these shores, and even more so since their return from that great wall of ice, as husband and wife, Rhaegal and Viserion’s interest seemed to blossom in the man who now shared her bed, and her life.

It called to mind, for her, those girlish fantasies she had entertained in her loneliness, in those days after she had hatched them all. That one day, perhaps, she would find two others, two she trusted most, two riders for her riderless sons.

Jon’s broken laugh at the gesture brought her back to the present, and she watched with a slight smile as he drew off his glove and extended his hand, waiting for Rhaegal to move forward if he wished.

Viserion was too fast, though, and with a rumbling purr thrust his head past his brother’s, forcefully rubbing his snout against Jon’s extended palm. The move seemed to anger Rhaegal, and the two quickly backed away to begin a rough game that she was starting to think was not a game at all.

If she allowed herself to entertain the notion, she might be convinced that they were fighting over him.

“ _Stop, both of you_ ,” she snapped in Valyrian. They ceased, but only barely, hanging their massive heads as Drogon snorted from behind her. She spun out of Jon’s embrace to arch a brow at her fiercest son. “ _Don’t you start, you naughty thing_.”

When she looked back to Jon, she spied an odd mix of confusion and something else, something hot in eyes that had seemed forlorn and anxious only moments before.

“What did you say to them?” He reached for her again, and dropped his head to place a hot kiss on the tender skin of her neck, making her release a silly giggle as his beard scraped against her.

“I told them to stop their silly fighting. And Drogon to behave.” She pulled back, gazing up at him, amazed as she ever was when she saw the raw, unfiltered love in his eyes. That was where it was best seen, she knew, a true window into the soul, one that words could never really cover up. When he ran his ungloved hand down to the curve of her hip she pinched at his side as best she could through the layers of leather and fabric. “You’d best behave yourself, as well.”

There was something about the bright springtime smell of the green grass crushed beneath their feet, and the blue sky above, the sun glowing bright just over his head, that made her think the world, at this moment, was full of endless possibilities. What was fear, in the face of such great love as this? What was worry, or concern, when there was the strength of his arms around her, the twist of his lips as he smiled down at her, the gray of his eyes like storm clouds on the horizon?

“On the topic of selfish wants,” he drawled, his smile growing as the haunted shadows in his eyes finally fled, “I must confess to another.” He stepped closer, a booted foot sliding between hers, his arms finally settling around her waist again and locking together, a sweet prison. “There are days I wish there was just this, us. That we could say to hell with all the rest of it, just stay here, a thousand years, with no one to disturb us.” His grin grew cocky and he brushed his nose against hers. “And then,” he whispered against her lips, breath puffing out in a caress, “you could speak Valyrian in that tempting way you do.”

She smirked and rolled her eyes, though it sounded lovely, like the fondest wishes of her own heart. “A thousand years?” She hummed in amusement, and brushed her lips against his. “We’d be dreadfully old.” She sighed as the pout she had come to expect from him replaced his smile, but she could see his eyes twinkling, knew a jest from him well enough by now to spot it immediately. “Not to mention all those folk who have sworn themselves to our cause. I suppose we must see to the task ahead first. Then,” she slid a finger down the center of his chest, stopping where her slightly rounded stomach met the flat plane of his, just below the belt ‘round his waist, “we shall see how selfish we can be.”

“I know,” he breathed out. He cast an eye behind him, where Rhaegal and Viserion had ostensibly reached an accord, but she did not miss the way they perked up when they sensed the attention now on them. “What do you suppose they’re up to? They’ve been awfully snappish lately.”

Later, she thought, when things were not so fraught with danger, and time was not pressing in on them, she might tell him of her wishes. It was a great risk, one she could not afford to take before this Night King was conquered once and for all, what she dared to hope for. Even those of Valyrian blood were not guaranteed a mount. It was the dragon’s decision, in truth, if they meant to take a rider, but the way her sons watched Jon so closely made her heart clench wistfully.

One day, she promised herself, she would ask him to try, and hope that she was not mistaken.

But today, she feared, was not the day for such indulgences.

She allowed herself a slight fib, instead. “Mayhap they are curious as to who has stolen their mother’s attention.” She quirked her brows at him as a slightly trepidatious expression stole over his face, and he glanced back at them again and blew out a breath.

“If that’s the case, reckon it’s my good fortune they seem to like me well enough.” She laughed, a bright sound that the chilly morning wind seemed to whip away.

“Yes, I think you’re right.” She adopted a serious expression, but couldn’t stop her smile even as her voice grew solemn. “Now, let’s be off, and see this done.”

He steeled himself, straightening, his arms tightening as he embraced her once more. “As you wish.”

She stepped back, to where Drogon sat waiting, his wing lowering in anticipation, clearly reading her thoughts as easily as if they were his own. And perhaps they were, perhaps that was the way of things. The way Jon and his wolf interacted had led her to ponder her own connection with her dragon, with the connection they shared, and she’d found she rather liked the idea. She extended a hand to her husband as he carefully climbed up behind her, helping him to settle in behind her as she grabbed hold of the bony horns that extended past the heated, dark scales of Drogon’s hide.

“Remember,” she said merrily, feeling Drogon lurch beneath her, readying for flight, “Hold on tight!”

With a joyous screech from her son, a call his brothers answered, they took to the air, a happy whoop sounding in her ear as massive, leathery wings carried them into the skies.

\--------------

Greywater Watch was precisely what it’s name implied, she realized.

The flight to this swampy Keep had been much more leisurely than her first flight with Jon, to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and it was well into the afternoon when the stony walls finally came into view, peaking above a endless, rolling fog that seemed to swallow the lands below whole.

There was a shiver of ominous foreboding that snaked its way down her spine, as they circled above the drab collection of moldering stone, and her husband must have noticed, for suddenly his lips were near her ear, his breath hot on the lobe. “Do you know, some say that to approach this Keep on foot, with no guide, is a fool’s errand? Some believe that it floats, always moving, never found unless it wants to be.”

She laughed, in spite of her sudden misgivings. “Then it is lucky we are flying, I should think.”

His hand caressed her stomach soothingly. Her fifth moon drew nearer, but the flutterings and stirrings of the life within had not yet grown strong enough for him to feel, so there was no way he could know how his touch had prompted an answering roll inside her. But it made her smile, all the same, the way the babe seemed to know his father’s touch already. And it was enough, the dual sensations, to quell the nervous tension coursing through her.

“The fires are lit,” he said, a bit more loudly as the wind seemed to pick up. “Let’s set down in the courtyard.” His free hand dropped to Drogon’s hide, and he patted his palm against the scales firmly. “Should be enough room for this lad, I reckon.”

Daenerys nodded, guiding Drogon down, down, down, Rhaegal and Viserion circling and screeching a raucous welcome above as Drogon thundered to the ground, dust rising around them as the dragon crouched and settled, muscles shifting under her thighs. Finally satisfied, though his head continued to circle around, as though anticipating an attack, he extended a wing, and she waited for Jon to dismount before she scaled the wing just behind him.

It was empty, this place, though Jon had been right. All around the yard fires had been lit, along the battlement walls and here, below, as well, braziers burning merrily though not a soul could be seen.

Then, from her right, came a startling noise: A joyful laugh sounded, a bit rusty and scraping, as though the one who’d set it free had not had much cause for such a noise in quite some time.

In tandem, Jon and Daenerys turned, finding a slight man standing on the catwalk above, a waif of a girl at his side. But while the girl’s smile was vaguely tremulous and fearful, she could not see such on the man’s face.

“Ah, you’ve come!” He clapped his hands together excitedly, then he was moving, disappearing from view only to emerge, moments later, through an open doorway set into the stone walls just below, his graying hair loose and hanging around his face, the sigil of House Reed emblazoned onto a fine, if rather dusty, doublet. “I knew you would.” He turned to the girl behind him, the resemblance between the two leading Dany to suspect that this must be a daughter. “Didn’t I say they would, Meera? The Old Gods have bid it, and here they are!”

“Yes, Father.” The girl, Meera, seemed to be more focused on Drogon than either the King or Queen, her eyes narrowed as her smile seemed to wobble. “Welcome, Your Graces,” she said, and curtsied low, her moss green gown lifted in her hand as she straightened. “Welcome to Greywater Watch.”

The older man seemed to remember himself, and bowed as well, leaning heavily on the cane clutched in his right hand. “Oh, yes, yes, welcome indeed.” He sighed as he stood, his eyes darting between Drogon and Jon and Daenerys, as though he could not quite settle on just one of them. “You are most welcome here.” He snapped to attention, suddenly, calling out a string of names, commands answered by several young men who streamed into the courtyard and subsequently stopped short at the sight of the dragon reclining there in their midst. “Now, my Queen, your sons, are they hungry?” He looked up, his wild smile growing as he saw the two dragons who still circled above, alert and waiting. “We have made preparations for all of you, of course. I have several nice, fat goats we can release for them, if they wish to hunt?”

“Oh.” After the less-than-warm welcomes she had received in other parts of Westeros, she was slightly taken aback at such thoughtfulness, but recovered quickly, giving the man a genuine smile. “They might well be. I’m sure they would appreciate it, my Lord.” She exchanged a quick look with Jon, who seemed flummoxed as well, as he studied the man before them. “You are Lord Reed, yes? Howland Reed?”

His left hand flying to his chest, the old man looked aghast. “Oh my word, where are my manners? I fear they have escaped me today. You must excuse me. It isn’t every day a man sees not one, but three, fully grown dragons. Or a Targaryen, for that matter.” He came closer, eyeing Drogon closely as the dragon’s head swung towards him, a low growl rumbling in warning. “Never thought I’d live to see this day.” He called out again, in a much firmer voice, for the lads in the yard to release the livestock for her sons to feed on, and after several moments of urging, she managed to convince Drogon to depart with his brothers and set out to the misty swampland in search of a meal.

They watched, together, until her dragons were little more than small inky dots in the afternoon sky, none more enchanted by the sight, it seemed to her, than Lord Reed.

Jon’s head dipped close, a quiet whisper sounding in her ear. “Do you think he’s mad?”

There was no question the man seemed a bit odd, but she shook her head slightly. He was a strange sort, she thought, but friendly enough, and as she and her King watched, Lord Reed let out a slow, heavy breath, then finally turned to face them again.

“Now, then, that’s settled.” Both hands now clutched the bulbous head of the carved wooden cane, and he nodded to the girl Meera. “This, of course, is my daughter Meera. She is the last of my children left, you see. A good girl, she is.”

The girl in question ducked her head, smiling shyly, but her eyes were keen and sharp when she looked to Jon and Daenerys. “I will show you to the rooms we have prepared for you, if you like. So you may refresh yourselves before we dine tonight. Does that suit you?”

Daenerys nodded readily enough; her steadily advancing pregnancy had made it all too frequent the need to avail herself of the privy, if nothing else. “Yes, thank you.” Jon, she realized, as she turned to look up at him, was examining Lord Reed with something akin to suspicion, but he nodded, as well.

“Greywater Watch is yours, Your Graces.” With a flourishing wave towards the moss-covered walls, Howland Reed bowed again. “If you will excuse me, I must see to our preparations. Tonight, we feast!”

With his loud exclamation still echoing off the walls, Howland Reed was off, leaving them standing with Meera, who gave them a rueful smile.

“You must excuse my father. It’s been some time since he’s had company.”

Quietly, she led the way, Jon and Daenerys trailing behind, and at the skeptical look on Jon’s face Dany gave a quiet chuckle.

“Well,” she whispered, as they walked, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, “he might be a _bit_ mad.”

\-------------

Hours later, after a welcome spell of dozing atop the furs heaped on their bed, and lingering near the blazing hearth in the rooms, they were led by Meera to a small hall, a long table set and prepared for them to dine, Lord Reed standing near the head, ready to greet them.

“Please, please,” he gestured to the table, his smile infectious, “sit with us. I do hope you’re hungry.” 

She sat, first, setting into the seat Jon pulled out for her, and then he followed, her husband’s rather brooding face softening slightly as he spied the ale already poured and waiting for him. When Howland and Meera joined them, she let her gaze travel the table, the smell of the roasted boar and rich gravy making her stomach rumble loudly.

At her side, Jon laughed, a sound echoed by Lord Reed. “No need to stand on formality here, please, help yourselves.”

It was not until all their plates were heaped with food that Jon spoke, and when he did, it was easy to hear the terse tension in his voice.

“My Lord, we are grateful for your hospitality, but I must ask.” She took a forkful of food, her eyes darting between her husband and the aging Lord as Jon addressed the man. “I sent countless ravens seeking your aid, when we sought to take Winterfell back from the Boltons. Why did you not respond?”

It was something she knew had troubled Jon, something that had given him pause when they considered coming here. She also knew well how many other Northern Lords had refused the call when it had been requested, and she found herself curious as to the answer.

Howland exchanged a look with his daughter, then sighed, his eyes falling to his own tankard as his hand swirled the drink inside. “At one time, Your Grace, House Reed commanded a thousand fighting men. Not great numbers, to be sure, but enough to suit our purposes. The crannogmen of the Neck are not the swarthy warriors of the Flint mountains, or the well-fed sons of Deepwood Motte, but we have our skills.” With a tense nod, he took a sip of his ale, then let his eyes stray to Jon. She could see the regret and grief that swelled in those depths. “I fear I sent them, when the Young Wolf called his banners. My men died with him, in the Riverlands.”

The silence that fell was a weighty thing, and gradually, Jon relaxed, though she saw the sadness that claimed his own face at the man’s words, knew he was no doubt remembering what had been done to his brother there, the defiling of his body along with his wolf’s. It never failed to anger her, and she reached across the wooden tabletop and took his left hand in her right.

“I see,” he finally responded.

Lord Reed watched the pair of them closely, a faint smile creeping across his lips as he saw their hands clasped together. “But I swear to you, King Jon, that House Reed serves House Stark, now and always.” He looked to Meera, then, and nodded, prompting the girl to speak.

“My brother Jojen and I, we travelled North, before Winterfell was taken. We were there, with Bran. We helped him escape, him and Rickon, took Bran with us beyond the Wall.” Her green eyes flicked to Jon, nervous. “We saw you there, at Craster’s Keep. With your black brothers.”

She heard Jon’s quick inhalation, felt his fingers squeeze hers tightly. “You were there? With Bran?”

Another tense look passed between father and daughter, before the girl answered. “Yes, Your Grace. But Bran’s journey took us onward. We could not stop, even for you.”

Howland interjected, a graveness that had been absent now coloring his tone. “Jojen died in service to House Stark, just as my fighting men did. And my daughter Meera, it was she who brought him back, from beyond the Wall. It was she who saw him safely back to Winterfell.”

Dany turned to see Jon’s eyes closed, his head slightly bowed. “Then you have my thanks, and my apologies, for your losses, my Lord.” He opened his eyes and looked to Meera. “My Lady.”

“Life is loss, I have found. And the years have brought such to me, to all of us, as surely as the moon chases the sun around the sky. But we are here, together, and I cannot help but think that it is loss that has led us here.” Howland regarded them both, and raised his tankard. “Let us drink, then, to those we have lost. Let them be remembered in our hearts.”

She found tears had risen in her eyes, as she considered the man’s words, and raised her water goblet in answer. “Well said, my Lord.” They all sipped at their drinks, the mood falling a bit somber, until Lord Reed cleared his throat again, breaking the silence.

“I wonder if I might treat you to a tale, as we dine?” He smiled towards his daughter, a look of fond, fatherly affection. “Meera tells me young Lord Bran was unfamiliar with the tale, and so I think the pair of you might be as well. It is a rather exciting one, to be sure.”

It seemed to Dany that it might be a welcome distraction, and so she squeezed Jon’s hand once more, and smiled at the odd Lord. “Of course.”

She realized, with a start, that Lord Reed had already worked through half the food on his plate, and the man seemed excited as he leaned back in his seat, ale in hand, and regarded them both thoughtfully. “What do you know of the Knight of the Laughing Tree?”

Her brow wrinkled, as she thought on it, and she shook her head, looking to Jon who seemed equally puzzled.

“I cannot say I have heard of such a Knight, my Lord.”

At Jon’s answer Howland smiled serenely and laced his hands together across his stomach. “Well, I reckon I ought not be surprised Ned never mentioned it. Never a more honest man born, I think, and yet even Lord Stark had his secrets.” He took a deep draw from his drink, and then smacked his lips, placing the empty tankard down on the table with a loud clang. “Well, then, let us begin.”

Dany tucked in heartily as the man began to speak in an animated voice, relaying his journey as a young lad to the tournament at Harrenhal, his wonder at the lavish surroundings, at the finery of these great houses as their nobility gathered for their games.

And she felt her own rancor burst forth when he spoke, next of his ill treatment at the hands of the squires of those very houses, how they had set upon him, beginning to beat him without mercy, until they were stopped.

“Then she road in, training sword in her hand, her horse whipped into a frenzy, whipping them about the heads until they fled from her. Her fury that day, was a mighty thing, you know. And for a stranger, at that.” There was a glint in the man’s eye, one that belied a deeper emotion, but she did not question it, merely inquired mildly as to this brave woman’s identity.

“Oh-ho.” Howland chuckled, and refilled his tankard. “Why, it was the first Stark I ever met. The Lady Lyanna.” He scratched at his chin idly, his eyes gazing towards the hearth that blazed at the far end of the table, near Meera. “Her ire on my behalf, I should comment, was matched only by her kindness, that day. I was one of her bannermen, to be true, but where she could’ve dispatched me to a healer’s tent, she did not. Took me right in to the Stark tent, she did, and it was there I met her brothers, all three. Brandon, and Ned, and little Benjen as well.”

The old man shook his head, clearly lost in his remembrance, but seemed to realize after a pause that the quiet had dragged on. In that sliver of time, Jon had found his own voice, and Dany saw his face awash in surprise. “You knew her? My aunt?” When Howland nodded, Jon’s eyes dropped to his plate, studying his half-eaten meal. “My father never spoke much of her. He had that habit, I suppose.”

“As I said,” Howland replied slowly, with a measured calm, “Ned had his own secrets, and his reasons for keeping them.” With another sip of ale, he settled back in to his tale. “Now, as you can imagine, the Lords Stark were all of them dead set that I must ride, defend my honor, as it were. Unfortunately for me,” he sighed wistfully, shrugging, “I was never much for horses, and certainly not the joust. Even Lyanna did her best to convince me, and when I would not be swayed, set upon her brothers to ride for me in my stead. But Brandon and Ned were already riding for themselves, and Benjen, well,” he chuckled, “he was but a boy of twelve, then. Too young for the lists.”

By now, Jon seemed as enraptured as she did, forgetting his food completely as he leaned against his seat back and looked towards the old Lord. “What did you do?”

Another hoarse laugh escaped Howland, and he smiled ruefully. “I follow the Old Gods, the old ways, Your Grace. The Isle of Faces is a sacred place, and near enough to Harrenhal that I thought, perhaps, the Gods might hear my pleas. And so I went to the shore of the lake, and trained my eyes upon it, that night, and prayed, for some way to avenge myself, to regain my honor.” He cocked his head to the side, his eyes straying to Jon and not moving. “And the following day, the Old Gods answered my prayers.”

Daenerys wiped at the corners of her mouth with the faded swatch of linen that had been provided, near-entranced. “What happened?”

“Ahhh.” Lord Reed favored her with an indulgent smile. “That is when our Mystery Knight arrived. But forgive me, Your Grace. I fear I cannot continue without mentioning something else. You see, the night I begged the Old Gods for aid, there was held a feast, and all the Houses were there. Including your own.” She gasped, a bit, unsure why it would surprise her so, because of course it would follow that the Targaryens would have been in attendance. But still, she had always hungered for scraps of knowledge, where her family was concerned, and she leaned forward, eager. “And I must confess, it is startling, how much you favor your mother.”

She felt Jon settle a comforting hand on her knee, a private touch, and she lay her hand atop his, peeking back to see him smiling softly at her.

“She was a remarkably beautiful woman, Queen Rhaella was. But then,” he chuckled, “most Targaryens are. The King and Queen, I spied them both, sat at a high table for the feast, with the Crown Prince sat beside them, your brother, Rhaegar.”

At the name she felt Jon shift beside her, and she wondered at it, another quick glance showing a growing discomfort on his face. No doubt Lord Reed spotted it as well, and there was something sharp, a rebuke in his voice, with his next words.

“From here, I must insist that you both dispense with what you think you know. For we shall lay many truths bare, tonight. And what transpired between Lyanna and Rhaegar is not the tale that was told, especially not after Robert claimed the throne.” Dany felt her eyes narrow; In her estimation, it had been a tragic tale, yes, a love that had caused a terrible war, and brought about the fall of her House. At her confused look, Lord Reed heaved another heavy sigh. “I fear, My Queen, that in the North it is believed that your brother Rhaegar kidnapped the Lady Lyanna, abducted her, and raped her, brought her to ruin.” His index finger uncurled itself from his tankard to point at her. “And for good or for ill, ‘tis another mark against you in the eyes of the North.”

She shook her head, almost violently, barely catching her goblet before it tipped over. “No,” she said vehemently. “That cannot be true. It cannot be.” Her heart was racing, now, because this simply had to be a falsehood. Had Barristan not spoken of her brother’s goodness? How his men had followed him because they loved him? Believed in him? That man couldn’t have done such a terrible thing.

As though he sensed her distress, Howland spoke again, a firm declaration. “Of course it’s not true.”

Jon’s head whipped up, mouth falling open slightly as he took in the man’s words. “Are you certain, my Lord? For that is the tale I’ve heard my whole life.” When Howland nodded, Jon seemed taken aback. “Did my father know?”

That seemed to throw Lord Reed into an internal battle, air sucked in sharply between the man’s teeth until he appeared to settle on an answer. The sight only served to confuse Daenerys further, for the question seemed straightforward enough. “Yes,” Howland finally said, soberly. “He knew. But not until things had already fallen apart, beyond repair.”

She threaded her fingers through her husband’s there upon her knee, tightening her grip until his eyes met hers. It was a small thing, she realized, in the grander scheme of things, but she could see Jon felt betrayed at the lie he had believed.

“Please,” Howland urged, regaining their attention. “Let us return to our tale, and things might seem clearer.”

Jon was still troubled, she realized, but he must have nodded his assent, as the Lord Reed relaxed back once more. “Now, as I said, the next day, I was watching from the stands as the lower lists began, the squires and lesser-born riding first. And as a name is announced, I realize, it is one of the same who had set upon me the night before. But then, as his challenger entered the arena, there arose quite a commotion. For some, it might have been the mismatched, battered armor, or perhaps that the rider seemed rather small in stature. But for me, the thing that set me a-trembling in my boots was this knight’s shield. The paint looked fresh, you see, but it was no sigil as I had ever seen. It was a weirwood tree, but it bore no weeping face. Instead, it was a laughing face that had been captured on that trunk, a blood-red laugh as crimson as the leaves it bore.”

Dany began to laugh, picturing it in her mind. “The Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

Howland laughed as well, grinning widely. “Just so,” he said, with a nod. “And to everyone’s surprise, that odd Knight unseated the squire quick as you like!” He leaned forward, as though he meant to conspire with them, his voice dropping. “It was clear, in that first match, that for all this Mystery Knight lacked in size, it was made up for in skill. A gifted rider, and that’s just what you need in the joust.”

Even Jon, whose interest had waned briefly, seemed pleased at the picture the man painted. “And did this Knight ride against those other squires, as well?”

There was a strange gleam in the old Lord’s eye, something almost proud. “Oh, Aye, Your Grace. The other two were dispatched, as well, and at the end, it was the Mystery Knight who was declared the winner. But you see, while the smallfolk there were enchanted by this unlikely hero, King Aerys was, I fear, sore wroth.” Howland’s face fell as he looked to Daenerys. “He was convinced it was an assassin, sent to kill him. And once the Knight had departed, he ordered Rhaegar to find the culprit, to bring him to face the King’s justice. Rhaegar set off, at once, and while the crowd was in a near-frenzy for the coming matches, I was full of fear.”

“Why?” She sounded breathless, even to her own ears, which seemed to amuse the old Lord further.

He seemed to hit his stride, fully engrossed in his tail, and gave them both a wizened grin. “Why, I thought the end had come for my new young friend Benjen.”

Howland just nodded sagely when Jon gave a surprised chuckle. “Benjen? My uncle? Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Howland took another sip of ale and smacked his lips at the taste, seemingly content to draw out the mystery. “I hurried away, searching, hoping I might find the lad and warn him. Who else could it be, I thought. For the rider had been quite small of stature, and I knew I had to seek him out and help him escape. After all, the risk he’d taken was for my benefit.” He looked to his daughter again, an odd smile rising on the younger woman’s face as Dany watched.

“And did you?” Moss green eyes swung to the Queen. “Find him?”

“Aye, I did.” He placed down his tankard, and lay both hands flat on the table, as though he meant to brace himself. “I stumbled down through the woods, to the river, and mayhap it was the Gods who guided my feet that day. And there, near the water’s edge, was Benjen. Only, he was dressed in his Stark colors, had no armor on at all.”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, and Jon’s hand turned in her grasp, squeezing tighter still as he tensed. “Was the Knight with him, then?”

Lord Reed tapped a finger to the side of his nose and nodded, eyes now twinkling. “She certainly was. Struggling to get out of that mismatched armor quick as she could, and when I saw the pair of them, I rushed over to help.” The man shuddered, at some remembered fear, she supposed. “If she’d been caught, you see--”

“It was Lyanna?” Jon was flabbergasted, that much was obvious, and she turned in her seat to find him the picture of shock and amazement. “My aunt Lyanna? Jousting?”

Howland let out a low laugh, his eyes wandering to the hearth again, watching the flames dance before he answered. “Aye, Your Grace. It certainly was. A wondrous thing to see, that much I can tell you. But Lyanna was a gifted rider, that much was true, and well known in the North.” His wistful smile fell away, though, and he grow somber and serious as he regarded them both. “But you see the peril, now? Not just a maid, but the only daughter of the Warden of the North, riding about? Raising the ire of the King? The consequences would have been steep, if she’d been caught. For all of us.”

Daenerys wondered that she could almost see it, coming to life in her mind, couldn’t stop the smile at the remarkable nature of it. It was no wonder, then, that her brother had become so enamored of the girl. “How very brave she must have been,” Dany murmured, and as she looked to Howland she saw his eyes grow misty. There was something there, just beneath his skin, a longing, a grief long buried. “You loved her, didn’t you, my Lord?”

Lord Reed started, averting his eyes, the corners of his mouth creeping downward. “How could I not? After what she did for me?” He sighed, seeming to forget he was not alone for a moment, murmuring to himself. “Oh, aye, she was brave. And wild, and wilful. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. ‘Course I loved her.” He sniffed, trying to inconspicuously swipe at his cheeks. He remembered himself, she saw, and gestured to their plates. “Fill your bellies and I’ll tell you how this tale ends.”

“There’s more?” Jon’s deep, rich voice sounded at her side, and she eagerly leaned forward, towards Howland, curious as well.

With an enigmatic smile, Howland nodded. “When Prince Rhaegar searched, you see, it was fruitless. He returned to his father with naught but the Knight’s shield, found hanging from a tree in the woods near the river.” He cocked his head to the side, knowingly. “At least, that’s what he told his father.”

She thought of the man she had seen in her visions, in the House of the Undying, the silver Prince who had once been the hope of her house, lost long before she was born. And as she thought on it, she could see what the truth might have been. “He found you, didn’t he? My brother?”

Howland smirked. “He certainly did. And if I thought I was surprised to find out just who this knight had been, well, ‘twas nothing compared to the look on the Prince’s face, when he and his man Jon Connington came crashing through the brush.” With a loud, barking laugh, he slapped a hand on his knee. “Could’ve knocked him over with a feather, I reckon. He takes a look at us, turns back to his man, then looks back at us, and do you know what he did?”

It seemed an impossible thing to guess at, and so she did not, merely shook her head and beamed. “What?”

“He rushes over, right away, to help Lyanna from the rest of her armor, and says ‘An excellent bout, my Lady, but are you quite mad?’” Another howl of laughter broke loose, chased by a shaky exhale. “We were terrified, of course, all three of us, but that got Lyanna’s back up well enough. And she stared straight back at him, tall as she could make herself, and demands to know what he’s going to do.” His smile slowly died, but remnants remained. “So he tells his man to take up the shield Lyanna had painted, and what they’re going to tell the King. And he looks back at us, and asks what in the Seven Hells we were thinking. The story just came out, then, between Benjen and I, Lyanna just glaring at the Prince the whole time.”

Howland paused, clearly seeing he had both the King and Queen hanging on his every word, and raised his brows, lifting a hand in the air. “He listened and sent us on our way, leaving in the opposite direction. We spent the rest of the day huddled in the Stark tent, just waiting for the Kingsguard to come and round us all up, but they never did.” His voice dropped to little more than a hushed whisper. “And then, the next day, Rhaegar himself rode. And won. And he crowned Lyanna his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“I imagine that must have been quite scandalous,” Daenerys said, then took an absent bite of her bread.

“It was. And Benjen and I, we never told anyone what happened that day. Not even Ned. I told him eventually, but,” he wiped a hand down his face, suddenly looking every bit of his age, haggard and forlorn, his excitement dying, “By then it was too late to stop what was coming.”

Death. That was what had come. Death and war and the destruction of her family, Daenerys knew.

Beside her, Jon had gone silent, unmoving, his eyes studying his now-mostly empty plate. He was stewing on something, she could tell, brooding over something he did not quite understand; It was obvious by the way his brows were knitting together, by the way his teeth seem to grind away.

“My Lord,” he finally rasped out, eyes dark and heavy when he looked up. “Why would my father have let the world believe this lie? All this time? If what you say is true, that Rhaegar did not do what he is believed to have done, why would my father participate in it? Let it perpetuate, unchecked?”

Howland frowned deeply, and shook his head, clucking his tongue lightly. “Those were terrible days, just after the war. And Ned’s relationship with Robert, as it were, was already stretched to the breaking point, after what happened to poor Elia and the children. That was a bridge too far for Ned Stark.” He glanced between them both, the doddering, slightly mad air he’d had before gone in an instant, his eyes keen and sharp as a hawk’s. “But Robert won, you see. And Ned, well, Ned found himself in a position he’d never expected to be in. His father and brother were dead, and now he had the North to look after, and a young family besides. What do you suppose Robert might’ve done, if he’d received word that his good friend, the new Warden in the North, was going around spilling tales of what had actually happened? That Lyanna had run away, she hadn’t been kidnapped at all, that she’d never loved Robert, and certainly never wanted to marry him? That Rhaegar hadn’t absconded with his sister? That they’d been in love?”

It was clear enough, at the way Jon’s face fell, that he understood. She certainly did. All the tales she had heard of the Usurper had not painted a picture of a reasonable man. And if this war had been based on a lie, she had no doubt Robert would have eliminated anyone who spoke against him, even one he considered a friend.

“He would’ve killed my father, I imagine.” Jon’s quiet response was sure, absolute, and Dany had no reason to doubt the truth of it.

Howland looked to their plates, finding them satisfactorily empty, and stood, abruptly. “There is something else I must show you, and it is the reason I’ve asked you to come. This,” he said, peering between the two of them, a heaviness stealing over his face, “This could not be said in any raven.”

Daenerys and Jon stood, as well, Jon’s hand finding hers immediately, and as they followed Lord Reed she felt a strange, creeping shiver down her spine, her stomach suddenly dropping nervously down to her feet as they were led up and through the odd Keep.

Jon dipped his head, lips tickling against her ear. “Would you think me a fool if I suddenly think I’d rather not know what he wants to tell me?”

With a quiet laugh she checked her eyes to the back of Howland’s head, then leaned up, giving Jon a quick, pecking kiss and a reassuring smile. “No matter what it is, we shall handle things as they come. Together.” It was an oath, a promise, and Jon received it as such, his worry giving way to a small, tight smile.

But still, she found her breath coming in short, quick inhalations as they were brought into a rather grand study, the walls lined with inset shelves, filled with books. Here and there were the sigils of House Reed, lizards crawling along the carved wooden desk, frozen in mid-step, blind eyes peering about as Lord Reed gestured for Jon and Daenerys to seat themselves.

Howland crossed back to the door, having a whispered conversation neither the King or Queen could quite make out, but when the man who’d been posted at the door made to leave Dany understood well enough that Lord Reed had dismissed his guard.

“Best not to be overheard,” he said meaningfully, then pulled a small brass key from a pocket sewn into his doublet and crossed to a nearby shelf. A small door was pulled open, then a slim piece of wood removed, just the height of the shelf, so far as Dany could ascertain. A false back, she realized, and she glanced over to see Jon watching the man just as closely. A faint ‘snick’ sounded, a lock being freed, and then Lord Reed pulled a wooden box from the depths, laying it atop the scarred surface of his desk with great care.

Then he sat, and stared at them both, steepling his hands before him and sitting rigidly, tense and wary, unsure. “He was going to tell you, Jon. That much I know to be true. Ned always planned tell you the truth of your mother, when the time was right.” The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice growing thick. “He was always worried there was a chance, that the secret might die with him, and so, all those years ago, when he brought you home to Winterfell, he entrusted this to me.” The box had a smooth, lacquered top, inlaid with an intricate pattern of wood, of all shades. It was beautifully done, and as Dany leaned closer, she could discern the pattern a bit better. It was a dragon. Her eyes narrowed. “The only proof, scant as it is, of what I mean to tell you lies within here.” A heavy sigh came, as Lord Reed leaned back, eyes closing for a moment. “And it matters very little, anymore, save that you ought to know, as I told you when I wrote. The Great War comes, and you deserve to know the truth.”

There was something ominous that swept her, a finality in the man’s tone, and she could feel Jon at her side, as tense as the Lord seated before them. She turned her head, just slightly, watching the play of emotions across his face, but finally, his hands slid forward, stopping just short of the wooden box. “May I?”

With a grave nod, Lord Reed closed the gap, pushing the box forward, until Jon took it fully. She held her breath as he lifted the top, and revealed to them both the contents: parchment and scrolls, some free and unbound, others tied tight with ribbon. The only other item was a long length of pale cream, folded neatly in on itself. Dany frowned as she studied the contents, but Jon had apparently decided to be done with his wondering, and he reached for the top sheet, a long rectangle of parchment covered in fine hand, bearing signatures at the bottom.

Jon scanned the words, his brow wrinkled heavily when he looked up at Lord Reed, handing Daenerys the missive. “I don’t understand.”

Dany took the parchment with trembling hands, mildly shocked when she read the contents. It was a decree by one High Septon Maynard, announcing that the marriage of the Crown Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen and the Princess Elia Martell was thereby annulled. It had been witnessed by two knights, in addition to the signatures of both the Septon and her brother, and she traced her fingertips over his name, at the fluid artistry of his hand, scrawled in long, elegant strokes.

Lord Reed nodded and kissed his teeth, then gestured toward the box. “Read the next one.”

Jon did, but only after throwing Daenerys a puzzled look. When he grasped the next he did not read it first, but spread it between them, so they might read it together. Dany did exactly that, her breath whistling out, her eyes snapping to where Howland sat watching them both quietly. “He married her? Lyanna?”

“Aye,” the older man said, “He did.”

The same Septon had performed the ceremony, according to the decree of marriage held in Jon’s shaking hand. The furrow between Jon’s dark brows deepened, his eyes sharp and suspicious as he looked back up towards Lord Reed. “What has this to do with my mother, my Lord?” There was warning, there, as her husband bit each word out between clenched teeth. What she could not discern, what caused a bloom of fear in her heart, was whether the tense, hard set of his jaw was borne of irritation, or dread.

Because she was starting to piece it together, and the more those pieces seemed to fit, the more her booted heel began to tap on the floor, the more rapid her breath came, the more her heart thundered.

“We found her in Dorne, Ned and I. After the sacking of King’s Landing, and the shameful, craven acts given on Robert’s order, or with his approval.” Howland looked at neither of them, now, and Dany gently took the parchment from Jon’s fingers and threaded hers through the gaps, instead, holding tight, bracing for what this might do to him, this man she had come to love beyond measure. “We had word that the most steadfast Kingsguard had not been there, at the Trident, when he fell. They were in Dorne, in the Red Mountains. And so we rode, Ned, and I, and a select few fighters that we had gathered. Ned couldn’t be away from Robert soon enough, not after he heard what had been done to those poor children. They were slaughtered, you understand?”

Dany shuddered, gripping Jon’s hand still harder, as she sucked in a sharp breath. She knew well enough what had happened to her brother’s children, poor Rhaenys and Aegon.

Jon gave a tense nod, and Howland pressed on.

“And we found them, Arthur and Gerold, guarding a tower. Asked them why they had lingered, so far from the Prince they were sworn to protect.” Green eyes stared directly at Jon. “They said their Prince had required them there. There was a fight, of course. Ned demanded to know where Lyanna was, and the melee ensued. We won the day,” the Lord said, morose, “but it meant little, in the end.” He shook his head, seemingly crippled with misery, and took a shaky breath. “By the time the battle was won, it was far too late to save her. Ned heard her scream, ran at the sound, but I had been injured, and so I did not make it to the room where she lay until she was already gone.”

He seemed to age by the minute, this Lord of Greywater Watch, and he seemed almost defeated as he slumped back in his chair. Each word looked to pain him, as he spoke next. “And there was Ned, holding his sister’s bloody hand, and there was Lyanna, still as a stone, gone.” Howland appeared to summon a great deal of courage, and his final words on the matter sealed it, in her mind, what had really happened all those years ago, who Jon’s mother had truly been.

And, a quivering shock coursing through her, who his father was, as well.

“And there was that little babe, Lyanna’s newborn babe, in Ned’s arms, so quiet, so solemn. Even then. Such a melancholy little lad.”

Her pulse was pounding in her ears, rocked by this revelation, unmoored from the world as she had known it, completely. She saw the instant the full realization hit her husband, her King, her sweet Jon. If she was adrift, he was completely upended, his face contorting, his chest heaving, his eyes glaring hard at poor Lord Reed, who had carried this secret, this tragedy, for so long.

“Finish it,” Jon ordered roughly. “Say it. Speak it aloud, my Lord.”

His hand was banded around hers like iron now.

“Lyanna was your mother, Your Grace. I had to pry Ned’s hand from hers, he wouldn’t let her go, he couldn’t,” the man seemed to choke on the words before he could gather himself again. “She begged him, Jon. She begged him to protect you, she knew Robert would kill you if he ever knew that you existed. She knew you would never be safe, if the truth of you was known. She made him swear, made him promise, with her last breath.”

Jon became eerily still, save for the working of his jaw, his teeth no doubt grinding together. She wished she knew what was in his heart, in that moment. She could see flashes, here and there, as he seemed to take in the entirety of this enormous thing, this total refutation of everything he had believed to be true about himself.

He was not a bastard. And he never had been.

He was a Prince. He was Rhaegar’s last surviving son. And he had been hidden away from the world, wearing a mask that had never quite fit, that he had always chafed at, she knew. He had always felt different, always that sense lingering that he didn’t belong in Winterfell.

It was not the time for her to take the measure of her own emotions, of the joy that filled her very chest to near bursting, that stirring that had always seemed true to her, that it was fate that had brought Jon to her, had set him on the path to find her, to seek her aid. Now, she could not deny it at all. They had been separated by wars and distance for almost their entire lives, but here he was, the hidden son, the only other Targaryen that remained, and somehow, miraculously, he had found her.

They’d found each other.

“And now you know, Jon. You are the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. That is the truth Ned spent his life protecting. But I swear to you, he meant to tell you, when the time was right. He would’ve raised an army for you, tried to win back that throne, when you were ready, would’ve fought Robert himself if you asked it of him. He hated the lie, hated what the life of a bastard meant for you, but you must believe me.” Howland was pleading now, but Jon appeared unmoved, still as a stone. “He made a promise, to keep you alive, to keep you safe, and he kept that as best he could.”

A tremor began, against her palm.

“Jon,” she whispered. He didn’t seem to hear her, and so she repeated it, again, worry streaking through her when he turned his head slowly, to meet her eyes.

Never had she seen him so despondent, so very lost, but as she parted her lips to say something, anything, he stood, dropping her hand and making for the door.

“I need some time,” he said in a rush, and then he was gone, leaving her alone with the crackling fire in the hearth and a deflated Howland Reed.

Neither spoke, for an eternity, and she rubbed absently at her growing belly, unsure, afraid. Would he cast her aside, now? Would he wish he’d never wed her? She was his aunt, after all, and she had been raised under the belief that one day she would wed Viserys. They were Targaryens, it was known that they wed each other, brother to sister if conditions allowed it.

Her more distant relation to Jon did not trouble her at all, but would it trouble him? Would he be disgusted at their union, at the life now flourishing within her?

“Well,” Howland Reed finally said, his voice a low, slow drawl. “That went better than I expected.”

It was so at odds with how she felt that she couldn’t stop her surprised laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth at the foreign sound. “I should go after him,” Dany said, as the sound died. And she should, but she was afraid, now, afraid that when she faced him again he would bring her world crashing down around her ears.

Howland shook his head. “Give the lad a bit of time to let it all sink in. Ned always worried about this day, the day he would have to tell Jon what had been hidden for so long. He knew intentions might matter little, but I can assure you, he had the best of them. We both did. I am only sorry he had to hear it from me, instead of Lord Stark.” Then he peered at Dany oddly, and tipped his head. “He knew about you, as well, you know.”

Daenerys frowned slightly. “I’m sure he did.”

Howland huffed out a laugh. “You were what finally made him part ways with Robert for good, resign as Hand to the King. Robert wanted Ned to send assassins after you, across the Narrow Sea.” Lord Reed’s face shone with something, then, something akin to pride. “He refused. He knew he must bring the pair of you together one day, I believe.” The man raised a hand, gesturing to the box still before him, largely unexplored. “It’s all in here, he says so himself. I saved every raven about Jon that he ever sent me. Every raven Lyanna received in that tower, from her Prince. Give it to him,” he urged quietly, and pushed the box towards her. “When he’s ready.”

Dany sighed, and gently took the lid that fitted the top, sealing off those remnants of the past. She stood, ignoring the frantic storm of fear that was tying her into knots, and smoothed her hand along her stomach one last time, trying to calm herself. Then she took the box in both hands, and dipped her chin towards the old Lord. “Thank you, Lord Reed. For telling him the truth. For telling both of us.”

“You are the last,” he answered solemnly. “The last of the dragons. Our only hope to win this bloody war once and for all. I wish you good fortune, Your Grace.”

She fought a shudder at the thought of what lay before them, now, but that fear was wholly eclipsed by this new terror, one she must face head on. She steeled her spine and left the room, finding her way to the rooms that had been set aside for him and placing that sacred box under their bed, away from prying eyes.

Several moments were spent pacing, wondering what she ought to say to him, what she ought to do. She could wait, here, wait until he had stewed himself well and good, but the thought of leaving him alone, now, was completely alien to her.

No matter what came next, she had made her vows to him, and she would see them through.

She took a deep breath, and set out to find him.


End file.
